Page 73 of A Necessary Wife

“I cannot believe you ignored my letter. Everyone is writing to me about your scandalous behavior there at Stapleton. I do not condone what you have done. I cry for the example you set for those poor children. You make your poor husband suffer out of spite and jealousy. You are too cold and calculating to love the earl and it is no wonder he looks elsewhere already. I rue the day I ever loved you.”

The only person Caroline had ever loved was herself and yet Amelia’s finger trembled at the injustice of Caroline’s accusations, when she had done so much worse in her acquisition of a husband. If she was alone, she would tear up that letter and burn it to dust.

She folded the letter carefully so no one would see the vile contents and slipped it under the edge of her plate. But she must have given herself away. When she looked up, everyone was watching her.

Chatham tapped his finger on the table. “More of the same?”

“Not this time,” she lied, and smiled at everyone.

Yet her heart was beating too fast to remain still. The cruel ink on the page pressed against the fears she’d carried for so long. When Chatham turned to answer Lady Ashcroft’s invitation to go riding with her, she felt his prolonged consideration of the question like a stab through the heart. “Yes, why not. The children can stay with my wife.”

Amelia had always expected betrayal.

Lucy cleared her throat. “Papa, can’t I go riding with you and Lady Ashcroft?”

“Not today,” Chatham said.

Amelia nearly cried over the child’s disappointment. She craved the attention of her father, just as Amelia did

“Darling girl, you know I’d take you anywhere,” Lady Ashcroft crooned, bending her head toward Lucy as if she’d been waiting for a moment to mother her. “We will go together another day.”

Lucy threw a cutting glance in Amelia’s direction, as if the decision was her fault.

Lady Ashcroft raised a brow and smirked, superior and insufferably smug about riding out alone with Chatham. She reached out and brushed her hand possessively over Lucy’s hair.

Amelia disliked the way the woman fawned over her daughter. It smacked as disingenuous when her eyes devoured Chatham over Lucy’s head.

Chatham was hers, not Lady Ashcroft’s.

She stilled as the possessive thought took root.

Her stomach fluttered, like a traitorous and foolish bird, caught in a trap of her own making. She craved Chatham’s complete attention. The delicious thrill when his fingers tightened protectively around her elbow as they climbed the stairs together heading for their bedchamber. How he would look at her in that direct manner of his, and not as a stranger or a duty he must suffer—but as someone he wanted to be with.

She wanted him to crave her, too.

Yet, he promised he never would.

And worse—far worse—was the echo of his words in the garden.

With you, I feel…too much.

You make me forget myself.

Chatham spoke of his need to always control his emotions, his desires, and today, during their interlude in the greenhouse, he had lost control once more.

Amelia could not control her passions or even begin try to. They were honest feelings she had for the man she’d married. They rang through her like a bell tolling for the beginning of something important, but fragile and precious.

She pressed a trembling hand to her chest.

She had known, of course. Known from the moment she’d accepted Chatham’s proposal; from the moment she’d placed her hand in his so confidently, where the danger would lie. Strived to fit herself to his life without being a burden but protested being forgotten.

She had quickly discovered Chatham was a man of great passion—even if he denied himself having those stronger feelings that drove hers.

She had also known he would not offer love to her. Had told herself not to imagine he might.

But hope was stubborn. Wily.

Hope sometimes flourished in a barren garden.